Vacation
by BritKit
Summary: Damn it, why isn't there an 'original' category! There used to be! Another practice college essay.


Vacation

I kicked a pebble, watching it fall off the pier and into the crystal water with a splash. I was then struck by the immediate wish to join it. The Caribbean sun fell on my shoulders, through the tank top I was wearing, roasting my back and bringing the question of whether I would survive this day unburnt to the forefront of my mind. I could feel the mix of sweat and sunscreen all over, the humidity making the very air seem dense and heavy. There was no breeze off the ocean, and the sun was relentless. Even with my hair pinned up, and wearing only a tank top and skirt to cover my swimsuit, it was _hot_. I wished fiercely for the gentle air conditioning of my and my brother's stateroom back aboard the _Galaxy_.

When my pacing brought me to the start of the pier, I turned, and began again, walking along the edge of the pebble-cement, past my parents, past my brother, past the small boat we were supposed to be on, bobbing innocently in the waves, past the family we were on this excursion with, and then just the pier, with the ocean at the end.

I was halfway to that ocean when there was the rumble of a car coming up the dirt parking lot. We all turned to watch as it pulled up, parked, and a man (our guide) stepped out triumphantly holding a container of what I could only assume was the long awaited fuel for our boat. We applauded.

A few minutes (and some complicated rearranging of people and bags) later, our Caribbean guide took off, the boat skimming lightly across clear water, heading towards the open sea. At last, some breeze. I leaned my elbows on the rail and relaxed into the seat, feeling the air brush against my neck. We spent about five minutes like this, moving gently across the water, a slight spray coming up the sides, and the quietest of breezes brushing our faces. Then, a few hundred feet from the pier, we took off!

The boat tilted, and pressed forwards as if chased, the spray coming thicker and faster, and that quiet breeze turning into a full blown wind. Immediate chaos ensued. My mother grabbed her hat, my father moved to push our bags where they wouldn't get wet, my brother nearly fell off the seat (he was trying to sleep), and the girls from the other family shrieked. But me? I turned around, balanced myself on my knees, gripped the rail with one hand, used the other to pull out my hair clip before it blew away, and leaned as far into the wind as I could. And laughed.

I dropped the clip into one of the bags my father was pushing under the bench, and half stood, trying to see around the boat to where we were going. "Franchesca!" my father yelled above the wind. "Don't lean out like that, you'll fall!"

"Will not!" I called back, closing my eyes to the sun. No longer a torture, now it was wonderful, warming my skin even as the wind whisked the heat away. This, I thought, this is paradise.

I could smell the salt from the ocean all around me, picked up from the water, and ingrained so deeply in the air that I knew I would be smelling it on these clothes for days. The sun was exquisite, just the right amount to counteract the wind. The air was fresh and clean, blowing fiercely against me, whipping through my hair with a vengeance. I leaned over the side of the boat, stretching my arm as far as it would go, in hopes of catching the spray. It was heaven. And all to soon, it ended.

We slowed, then stopped, in an area where the water was so shallow it was clear. I could see other boats like ours, and people standing in water that came up to their waists. Grey shapes moved along the sand. "Welcome to Stingray City!" our guide called out, and one by one we left the boat, to feed and pet the stingrays.

It was fun, Stingray City, as was the snorkeling we did afterwards, at a different spot. But when it was time to return to the pebble cement pier, and our cruise ship, I scrambled from the benches to the very front of the boat, and situated myself for another perfect moment. Sadly, it never came. Instead of speeding through the waves as we did before, our guide went slower, and offered the passengers a chance to try steering. It was not the same.

It was a beautiful evening, the sun was just starting to set, streaking the waters with color. Flying fish escorted us part of the way, jumping up and sailing across the water only to plunge back down again. On the way back to the cruise ship, my mother commented that it was the most wonderful thing she'd ever seen. The other members of our passage agreed, and took off describing all the things they had seen snorkeling, but I leaned my head against the glass of the ferry and was quiet. Inside, I thought my mother was wrong. The most beautiful part of our trip had been the beginning, racing through the ocean as fast as the boat could go, with the salt wind in my hair and the sun on my shoulders, and everything else forgotten.

It was one of the few moments in my life when, in my head, I was not dreaming of being somewhere else.


End file.
